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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27333535">eros harrows my heart</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/milesfairchild/pseuds/milesfairchild'>milesfairchild</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Turn of the Screw - Henry James, The Turning (2020)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M, Knifeplay, guess who the bottom is, miles is frustrating and vague as always, not the reader - Freeform</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 23:29:57</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,464</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27333535</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/milesfairchild/pseuds/milesfairchild</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>He looks at you placidly, unbothered by the sharpness against him. "Is this the part where you kill me?"</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Miles Fairchild/Reader</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>25</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>eros harrows my heart</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>crossposted request: can you write something creepy but hot?</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>A substantial amount of distance offers you a poor simulacrum of the upper hand. In hindsight, you should have been aware that the Fairchild's knowing looks and forbidding words. Even little Flora, angelic in appearance had her saccharine-sweet tone coated in a layer of sinister malevolence. In some ways, you could even say that you were thankful to Miles for being so tangible in his disposition, that even Kate, bless her naive and unknowing heart, had found deeply unsettling.</p><p>"Move," you demand, eyes locked onto Miles' mirth filled ones. It angers you, that look. It makes you seem as if you don't know what you're doing, what forces you're playing against (and you <em>don't</em>). He patiently heeds your command, standing in front of the door to the derelict room. There are many of those in Bly Manor.</p><p>Sunlight streaks across your eyes but the warmth contrasts the glacial atmosphere. Sweat glistens on your skin, the hammering of your heart, <em>felt</em> with every rise and fall of your chest. You hold the knife protectively in front of you.</p><p>"Well? Are you coming in?" He asks knowingly with a raise of the brow. You grit your teeth at the condescending nature his tone holds and tighten your grip against the knife in the firmness of your palm.</p><p>"Go. The fuck. In." Your hands are trembling now and you will them to still because even though Miles is looking at you, he knows. He always has a way of <em>knowing</em> that frustrates you to no end. Everything you could ever do is unsurprising and like he expects it to happen.</p><p>He yields, leisurely walking into the room and stands in the middle of it, hands stuffed neatly into the pocket of his jeans. He doesn't turn to look at you, patiently waiting for you to enter the room. You consider locking him in but swiftly realize that Miles has ways of alleviating his boredom in the most unorthodox of ways.</p><p>"So," he begins, as though this was a casual affair and not one of him being stipulated into a lone room by a person incensed by not only his behavior but untold secrets that he had hidden behind mirthful expressions.</p><p>"Cut the bullshit, Miles. You know what I want. Tell me what the hell is going on. You and that old bat may have convinced Kate she was fucking crazy, but I know." You're tired of the never-ending secrets in the alcoves of this manor. Tired of knowing that Miles knows something. There is not a chance in hell that he doesn't. You can just <em>tell</em>.</p><p>His features rearrange to that of mock understanding. He nods,  "Oh. <em>That</em>."</p><p>You sneer, "Yes. <em>That.</em>"</p><p>His enthusiasm remains unhurried and he sighs. He does not seem surprised in any way, in fact, it seems like he was anticipating this conversation. If not now, then later. "I'm not sure it's something you'd wanna know about."</p><p>"I'll be the judge of that." You lunge forward, gripping his sweatshirt into your unyielding grip, the sharp point of the blade digging into the soft, pale flesh of his neck.</p><p>He looks at you placidly, unbothered by the sharpness against him. "Is this the part where you kill me?"</p><p>You grit your teeth, pressing the knife more forcefully to his neck. The knife protruding into wraith-pale skin without drawing any blood. You breathe out a humorless laugh through your nose. "I'm thinking about it."</p><p>His breathing is shallow now, something that escapes your notice.</p><p>"I'll consider myself lucky then."</p><p>"I wouldn't hold my breath if I were you," you fling back.</p><p>A close-mouthed grin tugs at his lips. The sight of it infuriates you. You clutch the knife a little tighter and push it into the tender flesh, you notice a sanguine streak trickles down the expanse of his throat and vanishing beneath his threadbare sweatshirt.</p><p>With a sense of fascination, you stare at the cut. It's hardly anything that he needs medical care over, but who knows when it comes to <em>thoroughbreds</em>. You tear your gaze away from the minor laceration and fixate on Miles' heat-glazed stare. His eyes are at half-mast, much like his disheveled clothing and his lips are parted. For the first time, you can confirm in all honesty that in this very moment, <em>you</em> have the upper hand and not for the reasons you'd originally thought of. The realization has the frown melting into something akin to confusion before finally molding into comprehension.</p><p>You exhale out a derisive scoff. "Fucking <em>freak</em>."</p><p>He accepts the harsh shove you deliver, stumbling back almost pacifyingly, though you have a sentiment that it has more to do with how skeletal and cadaverous he is. You incline your head to the floor and he looks back at what you're motioning towards before glancing at you. You notice, with an imprecise feeling of satisfaction, that the remnants of amusement have all but faded away, instead, there is an indecipherable look in its stead.</p><p>"What, do I have to do everything?"</p><p>"What?" His voice comes out addled, a tentative pinch between his eyebrows. You find that his confusion is genuine and you're not sure if it annoys you or satisfies you in this particular scenario. Perhaps it's an amalgamation of both.</p><p>"Get on the floor," you demand quietly.</p><p>"And if I don't want to?" He challenges, attempting to restore the balance. It doesn't work as well as he wants it to; the scale has already been tipped. You scrutinize him jaundiced, trying to determine if you'd read the situation wrong, before shrugging.</p><p>"Then don't."</p><p>He decides to humor you, sitting down, cross-legged and raising his eyebrows in a '<em>so, what now?</em>' motion. You ignore him, giving him a once over, devoid of expression. You sigh. "Looks like l <em>do</em> have to do everything."</p><p>There's an upsurge in your satisfaction at the regurgitated confusion depicted on his face. It's ephemeral because you give another shove, this one harder than the last and his head hits the floor of the decrepit room, an echo of the thud the only sound.</p><p>"Well, if <em>this</em> is what you wanted, you could've asked-"</p><p>"Shut up." You don't say anything, instead, your hands go to the button of his jeans and undo them. For once he stays silent, though he does lean up on his elbows to have a better view of what you're doing.</p><p>You stand up then and he straightens for a moment, a protest on the tip of his tongue before it dies down at the sight of you removing the bottom half of your clothes. His jaw goes slack, a drugged look taking precedence. You don't bother with your shirt. You also don't bother with removing anything of his either. With how scrawny he is, you doubt that there's anything to see anyway. </p><p>"Open your mouth," you demand, two fingers sliding in when Miles complies promptly, mouth closing around them. A rush of arousal inundates in the pit of your stomach at the hum that sounds around your fingers. You keep them there for a moment before your other hand, with the knife, grips his face, a silent demand to open his mouth once more.</p><p>Your fingers, now spit-slicked, trail down and his eyes follow them.</p><p>"Here, let me," he begins, his weight shifting on one elbow and the other hand moving to where yours is and is abruptly impeded by a vice grip on his wrist. "Keep your hands to yourself." He moves it back, raising it in mock surrender along with his eyebrows.</p><p>You continue your trajectory down your body. The accumulated wetness mixed with Miles' saliva feels good, your eyes slide shut. You feel your head loll to the side for a brief moment before becoming hyper-vigilant of the movements you're making.</p><p>There's a hardness pressed against your inner thigh, and you feel a hint of moisture from the tip of his dick. You shift remotely to accommodate yourself on his lap, straddling him.</p><p>You look at him. He's being strangely reticent. You hardly find yourself complaining. His company is much more pleasant when he keeps his mouth shut.</p><p>Pressing your hips down, you grind down on his length. A raw moan is torn from his throat, with which even he seems to be stunned by. He swiftly braces his hands against your hips, his fingers digging into your skin hard enough to bruise. You issue him an admonishing look that he chooses to omit.</p><p>"Are you stupid? Do you struggle with simple instructions, Miles? Move your hands."</p><p>He counters this with an amused breath of laughter, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth but otherwise remains silent. He stubbornly keeps his hands where they are. A sigh from you and he narrows his eyes with amusement. It's fleeting because you readjust just so you're a few centimeters shy of his length, his complacent disposition faltering. His fingers grow rigid as if he's trying to decide whether or not he wants to oppose you. He lifts his digits reluctantly, returning them to their position on the floor.</p><p>He shifts his weight. You immediately catch on and slowly lower yourself onto him, watching his head fall back. "Fuck, you're so <em>wet</em>," he rasps out, hands moving to seek purchase but then seeming to remember what you'd said and bringing them back. A slight smile makes its way onto your lips. Guess he <em>does </em>listen— when he wants to, that is.</p><p>You start at a slow pace, breath labored with an occasional gasp when you take too much of him. Miles becomes alert to this, raising his hips to make you feel more of him, you obstinately keep your mouth shut when he does, increasing your pace at your own volition and contrasting Miles' movements, making it almost impossible for him to even attempt to keep up with your fluctuating momentums.</p><p>"Keep going, <em>keep—</em>" a moan cuts off his sentence when you press the knife back into him. He struggles to string a cohesive sentence for a moment but eventually manages, "I'm not really in a position to argue so keep riding me. If the way you feel right now is anything to go by, you're not going to last much longer either." To punctuate his claim, he brings his hips forward and fucks you sharply.</p><p>
  <em>Fine, have this brief moment of autonomy, Miles. </em>
</p><p>Temporarily, you had forgotten about the knife in your hand until you briefly lose your balance and in doing so, you drag the edge of your knife over his shoulder.  Miles sucks a hiss of breath between his teeth that indicates injury. Your mouth falls slack to issue a reflexive apology but you're quick to remember who you're offering amends to and press your lips together in a tight line. His skin separates and blood begins to spread out to the edges of his sweatshirt, the fabric works like a sponge.</p><p>This doesn't deter him. Of <em>course</em>, it doesn't, why would it? If anything, his movements are laced with more vigor, your shirt bunched up in his grip. <em>There</em>. That's the extent of him dictating his movements, you immediately cease your movements and he appears so frustrated that you have to bite back a laugh at the look on his face. He tries to assemble a calm and collected tone but you pick up on the remnants of agitation regardless. "Why'd you stop? I was close."</p><p>You feign innocence. Throwing his own mocking attitude in his face fills you with a different kind of satisfaction, you clench around him precipitating him to groan.  "Miles. I only came here for one thing."</p><p>An embittered sound of exasperation comes from him. "I told y-" his sentence is truncated at the weight of your hand pushed in the middle of his chest for leverage before you move leisurely at an agonizingly slow pace, but not enough to bring him back to the precipice of release.</p><p>"What was that?"</p><p>"Fuck you," he says without any genuine acrimony and you laugh, "Baby, I'll fuck you all night once you give me some answers."</p><p>He exhales out a trembling breath, the back of his hand pressed against his forehead in contemplation and then nods. "Fine. After. It has to be after."</p><p>"Just answer me this for now then; is Kate crazy?"</p><p>"No. She's not."</p><p>You grow rigid for a moment, spine straightening like the stem of a flower. "Okay." You'd already accepted this truth but the confirmation was a balm. Not only for you but for the other occupants of this manor that had no familial ties to it. "Okay," you repeat, glancing down at Miles who is dubiously looking at you, unsure of what to make of your reaction.</p><p>You place both palms on his chest and begin riding him again, this time your velocity at a much more gratifying speed. Your gasps and moans intermingle with Miles' own, limbs growing heavy but you're too lost in the essence of your pleasure to notice just yet. You feel something in the pit of your beginning to intensify and you can tell that Miles is close too.</p><p>When you come it's as though the channel serving as a spillway to control your emotions overflows and the surplus of feeling escapes in a flood of reaction. The knife slips from your hold and clatters against the floor somewhere behind Miles.</p><p>You rest your forehead against his now bloody shoulder and inhale a shaky breath. His breath hitches and he rakes his nails down your chest reflexively when he finally capitulates to his body's demands. You feel his dick twitch inside of you and his stomach quiver as he spills himself to completion along your inner walls. He curses out a string of expletives and clutches at the center of your shirt for something to hold onto.</p><p>Your vision wavers and the room begins to spin, slipping into an ink-blot of darkness that wars with the light. You lift a shaky hand to the fall of his hair and tug at his curls. Your limbs are trembling and every ounce of energy left in your body is shattering— Miles reaches down, and this time you allow him, his thumb brushing softly against your clit before rubbing at an easy-going pace, your clit throbbing with hypersensitivity. You cry out, thighs trembling and you tighten them around his thin waist. You're coming again, breathing coming out faster by the second before a moan erupts from you and body convulsing atop of his.</p><p>He watches you with keen interest, rose-lips parted as you collapse on top of him, moving his head so your head fits between the conjunction between his head and his shoulder, the stickiness of the blood, almost dry now, contravened.</p>
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